


Room With A View

by Noelleian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Aesthetics, Angst, Canon Compliant, Crack, Drabbles, Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Moodboards, Smut, au's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noelleian/pseuds/Noelleian
Summary: A series of drabbles that accompany moodboards created by yours truly. Some will be canon compliant, some will be AU's. Pairings and characters will be added with the addition of new chapters and rating may be subject to change.Excerpt: “Did you know,” Wufei murmured as he hunched over in his chair, a glass of fine cognac spinning idly between his fingers. “That blood looks like sparkling jewels in space?”





	1. The Fallen King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three former soldiers who are unable to find closure get together once a month to remember the man whose life and death left an inexplicable, yet significant impact on their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this series is based on moodboards, or aesthetics I create on my Tumblr. I do not own the images themselves. I simply scour through the web to create little themes (moodboards) and then I write drabbles for them. Most of them will be short, but some might end up longer if I get carried away. xD
> 
> Hope you enjoy this series!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own GW, or the images in the moodboards. Both drabbles and aesthetics are made for fun and not for profit, or licensed commercial use.
> 
> The Fallen King  
> Wufei, Une, Zechs, Treize (deceased)  
> No pairings. Rated: T.

If was for the best. They all knew that. But it still made no difference when it came time to pick up the pieces and move on. The man they knew was far more complicated than the regal and ruthless tyrant the world had been acquainted with. What was necessary for peace became a burden, a curse each of them would carry for the rest of their lives as every beat of their hearts reminded them of the man whose own heart now lay cold and still inside his chest.

“Did you know,” Wufei murmured as he hunched over in his chair, a glass of fine cognac spinning idly between his fingers. “That blood looks like sparkling jewels in space?”

“I did,” Une assured him as she finished off her own drink. At a glance, Wufei could see the smudged mascara across the porcelain of her cheeks and looked away in shame. It was his fault they were here, in this place. Unable to pretend the ghosts of their victims, of one in particular didn’t loom about them like an ominous storm cloud.

Zechs would be joining them soon. He’d requested some time alone to pay his respects and pray away the demons that constantly plagued him. Something they understood all too well. They were demons that plagued them all. Wufei still didn’t understand why he’d agreed to this monthly…whatever it was. Pity party, perhaps? Three losers who didn’t know how to move on. To forgive and forget. Three obsolete souls trapped in a world that no longer required their services.

“Rubies,” Une added, startling him from his thoughts. She reached for the snifter and poured herself another drink, her dark eyes distant as she brought the glass to her lips. “They always were his favorite.”

 

*******

 

_[My Tumblr.](https://noellefanfic.tumblr.com/) _


	2. Amber Waves of Grain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's almost like "Love At First Sight" was coined just for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this stems from a biker AU that was squee'd over between myself and Moreena. Don't expect realism here. Ssh. Just go with it. ~.^
> 
> Trowa/Quatre.  
> Humor, Slight Angst, Smut.  
> Rating: Explicit.

The blanket was scratchy against his naked skin, the ground beneath him lumpy and uneven, but Quatre simply couldn’t find the will to care. Not when his head was pillowed on a thickly muscled arm while the other wrapped around his back and held him captive. And such a sweet captivity it was. One he was reluctant to leave. One he would happily accept for the rest of his life if he could.

The man’s skin was silky soft and stretched over powerful muscles that Quatre had shamelessly watched flex enough times to know them by memory. He could trace the ridges where one lead to the next, the images vivid and tactile inside his mind. He’d expected him to smell like old leather, motor oil, Lucky Strikes, and cheap cologne and was not disappointed when reality matched his fantasy.

Trowa smelled like a man. A _real_ man. All rough around the edges, the poster boy for the working class. A man who preferred to make his money with hard, honest labor and dirty hands. Rugged, heady, bursting with masculinity and aggression. 

The first time Quatre saw him, he’d honestly believed Trowa was the Marlboro Man in the flesh, sans the cowboy hat. Who wouldn’t with the rolled-up sleeves of his t-shirt practically strangling the rounded sinew of his biceps and the faded denim jeans that looked as if they’d been painted onto those buns of steel?

He wouldn’t be surprised if one day he discovered Trowa gracing those Sexy Man calendars that neglected housewives often kept hidden among their feminine hygiene products. The one place they knew their husbands would never dare to venture.

Maybe he'd be the Sexy Mechanic, or even the Sexy Fireman, or a cop. His Adonis-like body bared but for the hat and a pair of blue chaps. Perhaps he'd dangle a pair of handcuffs from his finger with a cheesy caption that read, "You're under arrest...for stealing my heart!"

Quatre's imagination alone definitely provided enough jack off material to get him through his first few semesters of college. Probably more.

And he should know about the neglected housewife thing. He accidentally found his mother’s calendar one day while searching for Band-Aid’s. She’d caught him looking through it, bleeding cut on his finger forgotten, and told him if he wanted to see his fifteenth birthday, he’d keep his mouth shut.

It was more a mutually beneficial agreement between them. Quatre didn’t tell his father she had it, she didn’t tell his father he was drooling over photos of half-nude men with a boner pitching the front of his trousers.

Three years later, their secrets were still safe and with Quatre leaving for college after the summer was over, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting kicked out for being one of those “limp-wristed faggots” his father was always so eager to complain about.

“You’re thinking so loudly.”

“Hm? Oh,” he blushed and scooted closer towards the warm cocoon of Trowa’s arms and inhaled the intoxicating bouquet of sweat, grease, and tobacco, sweetened with a hint of cinnamon from the Big Red gum Trowa had been chewing before he kissed him. “I was just thinking about my father.”

“What about him?”

He considered giving Trowa the rundown of his rigid, homophobic sire, but decided he didn’t want to ruin…whatever _this_ was. They barely knew each other anyway. They certainly weren’t dating. They’d seen each other around, ogled and flirted from afar, but never spoke until today. 

If any of the old fuddy duddies from town ever caught him speaking to “that hoodlum”, the news would have reached his parents long before he’d even have time to cook up an excuse. Information, especially of the scandalous kind, traveled faster than lightning around here. 

Such was life in this tiny, one horse town of Harrison, Nebraska where the varsity high school football team was inundated with beefy, corn-fed All American lads. Where the earth was flat as a pancake and the women attended church every Sunday donned in their flowery hats and white gloves. Where Fourth of July barbecues took months of planning and wound up looking like Uncle Sam had barfed all over everything.

God, it made him sick.

“Nothing,” he murmured, burrowing his face into Trowa’s chest like a nesting prairie dog. Just a few hours ago, he’d been walking home after catching an afternoon flick at the town’s theater and now he was here, naked in the arms of Harrison's resident degenerate.

There was no seduction. No pickup lines, or inquiring about a date. Trowa simply rode past him on that choppy motorbike he’d been tinkering with for the better part of six months and then stopped several paces ahead. He waited for Quatre to catch up and flipped the visor of his helmet with a, “Get on.”

That was all it took. So painfully bored of stuffy, small town life and desperate for a little excitement, he swung his leg over the elongated seat and held on tight, whooping with elation from the roar of the engine, the freeing sensation of wind in his hair, and the adrenaline-pumping thrill of danger.

They ended up in a clearing, out of sight from the road, but close to a small creek. Trowa unzipped his leather jacket, shrugged it off his broad shoulders, and reached for him. He grasped Quatre's chin between calloused, grease-stained fingers and tipped his head up for a kiss.

Quatre all but offered himself on a silver platter after that. Lying down across the blanket and opening his legs like a cheap whore once Trowa managed to wrestle his clothing off of him. Not much was said, but the fucking was exquisite. The weight of Trowa’s body pinning him to the ground, the thrust of hips between his thighs, and his own whimpers of pleasure syncing with the sound of rushing water and singing birds.

Up close and personal, Trowa was none of the things he was relentlessly labeled by the townsfolk. He was just a man. A beautiful man with sparkling green eyes and a smile that Quatre wanted to keep in a little box, tucked close to his heart for safekeeping. He couldn’t imagine why he’d stuck around this place for so long, especially with the way everyone treated him.

“Why do you stay?”

Trowa propped his head on his hand and stared down at him as he tucked a lock of hair behind Quatre’s ear. “I’ve been watching you for a long time and I think I know you. I was like you once. Alone in a place where you can’t be yourself. I didn’t have anyone and if I left, neither would you.”

Quatre blinked up at him in shock. “You stayed for me? Why? You don’t even know me!”

“I do know you. I know that look you have on your face whenever you’re out with your folks. How tightly you have to keep yourself coiled, terrified of anyone finding out about your secret. Places like this? They don’t belong to people like us.”

He snorted. “Tell me about it. But…oh my God. I can’t believe the only reason you’re still here is because of me.”

“Well, once you go off to college, you won’t need me anymore. I’ll be free to go wherever I want.”

And for some reason, that hurt. After this, he had no idea what would happen between them, but he desperately wanted whatever this was to continue. He felt like he would suffocate if he never saw Trowa again. He wanted to invite him to come stay with him at State, but…would that be too forward?

_Hey, I just met you…and this is crazy. But here’s my dorm room so…move in with me maybe?_

Somehow that just made him come off like some crazy stalker under the delusion that they must now become engaged because they did the fricky fracky. It was most likely just a one off anyway. A pity fuck from someone who’d been just as lonely when he was…

“Wait...how old are you?”

Trowa, who was sitting up and in the process of taking a swig out of his bottle of Miller Lite, choked on his mouthful and turned away as he coughed into the crook of his elbow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave Quatre a strange look. “Why would you ask me that?”

He shrugged a naked shoulder and picked at the pilled fabric of the blanket. “Why wouldn’t I? I mean, you just boned me on a blanket that’s probably only ever been used for - never mind. I mean...I don’t even know your last name.”

Trowa chuckled, the sound like music to his ears. He took another drink of his beer and then held the bottle out for him to take. “Twenty. I’m twenty. And my last name is Barton.”

Quatre took the bottle and sat up, staring down at the label. “How did you get the beer then?”

“I stock the freezers for Jeb three nights a week for a little extra cash. He lets me buy it at a discount.”

“Ah,” he nodded and took a drink, his face twisting at the bitter taste. “Gross,” he opined and handed it back.

“It’s…an acquired taste,” Trowa agreed and finished off the bottle. Quatre’s eyes were drawn to the bob of his Adam’s apple and bit down on his tongue to curb the urge to lean over and run his tongue along the smooth column of his throat. 

He coughed into his fist to save face, but glanced up in confusion a moment later. “But if you’re only twenty, you would have been a junior when I was a freshman. I don’t remember ever seeing you at school.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Trowa said. “I dropped out my sophomore year.”

“Oh…sorry,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean to intrude, or bring up -”

“It’s okay. Honestly, it’s not that tragic. Fact is, I’ve never been good at school and I needed to work full time when my old man fell off the wagon again, so…” 

Ah, of course. Trowa’s father was well known for his status as the Town Drunk. Quatre had certainly heard his fair share of Pigeon-Eyed Pete stories, some of which he didn’t believe actually happened. And he wasn’t about to ask Trowa if they did. 

He changed the subject instead. “So where will you go? What will you do? Will I ever see you again, or was this just a one time thing? Do you think -” he stopped himself there and pressed his lips together, his face flaring with heat.

_Psycho stalker, Quat. Hellooo. Watch yourself._

Trowa blinked at him in stunned silence and then looked down at the empty bottle in his hands, picking at the corner of the label with his thumbnail. “Dunno,” he said. “I suppose I should stick around for my old man. Can’t even wipe his own ass most days.”

The dejected, resigned softness of Trowa’s voice went straight to his heart, wrapped around it, and yanked it right out of his chest. This poor, young man. So kind, yet so misunderstood. Shunned and sneered at because he supposedly represented everything a town like Harrison shouldn’t be and it pissed him off. It just wasn’t fair.

“You’re too damned good for this town, Trowa Barton.”

He looked up in surprise and Quatre was over the moon a moment later when his lips curled up, not quite a smile, but close. Better than nothing. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said with a decisive nod. “These people like to think they’re so perfect, so pure, but they’re not. They have skeletons in their closets a thousand times worse than you and I put together. More like stinky, rotting corpses.”

Trowa’s green eyes sparkled with amusement. “You speak as if you know this for a fact.”

He smirked. “Do you know my mother? Gossip is her native tongue,” he said with a snort. “She knows that every Thursday night, Phil Jenkins tells his wife he’s going to be working late when in reality, he’s shacking up with Lisa Wells.”

Trowa’s eyes widened. “ _The_ Lisa Wells? Harrison’s First Lady?”

“The one and only,” he drawled, stretching his legs out on the blanket and crossing his ankles. How his mother came to know about the illicit affair of the mayor’s wife was beyond him. He was positive she had a CB radio hidden somewhere in the basement where she and the other town gossips would covertly exchange information at three in the morning like intelligence agents on a terrorist lead. Using “code” words like “Jezebel” and “The Adulterer”. 

“How in the hell does your mom even _know_ that?”

“No clue. She probably has her little spies posted all over town. Wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Do you think she’ll…” Trowa gestured between them. “About us?”

“At this point, I really don’t care if the whole town knows. Let ‘em gossip.”

“But, your father…”

He shrugged and crawled forward, swinging a leg over Trowa’s hip. He settled into his lap, hissing as a sharp spark of arousal flared in his groin, ignited by the stirring erection pressing into the crack of his ass. He nipped playfully at Trowa’s cupid’s bow and whispered, “To hell with him. I like you. I _want_ you, Trowa. I don't want this to end. Take me again. Please, fuck me.”

Trowa growled and surged up, tipping him onto his back across the blanket. Quatre’s breath hitched in his throat from the erotic probing of his cock that desperately sought the pleasure of his body. He exhaled with an emphatic moan and opened himself up fully, taking every delicious inch inside him with aching acquiesce. 

Trowa stared down at him as he flexed his hips with impressive tenderness, his eyes full of something so profound, Quatre wasn’t sure what to call it. “You mean that?”

He gasped and then shouted when the tip of Trowa's cock collided with his prostate. Nodding his encouragement, he dug his fingertips into thick biceps and held on tight as he was rocked across the blanket. “Of course I do. I - wanted to - to - to ask you to come with me in Sep - September. I - _ah!_ \- I know that’s probably too forward -”

Trowa cut him off with a hungry kiss and destroyed his train of thought with a particularly well-aimed thrust. He closed his eyes and wrapped his legs around his lover's narrow waist, moaning brokenly as Trowa panted into his ear, “I thought you’d never ask.”


	3. Lowering the Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relena couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but for some reason ‘Animal Farm’ came to mind whenever the gang got together and this New Years celebration did not disappoint. 
> 
> It also happened to be the night she conceded that Dorothy might actually have a point for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heero/Relena, Trowa/Quatre (implied), Duo/Hilde (implied).  
> Humor, Crack.  
> Rated: T+.
> 
> Hope everyone had a fantastic New Year!

Hosting an annual New Years gala was exhausting work. It required months of planning, an ungodly amount of money, and an abundance of hollering and hand-wringing. 

Of course, as Vice Foreign Minister, Relena Darlian was delegated to play hostess to world leaders, religious leaders, politicians, lobbyists, corporate CEO’s, heads of charities, as well as the owners of the ESUN’s most lauded media giants.

She should have known not even her blue Versace gown would be enough to keep the spotlight on herself for very long. And true to form, Dorothy Catalonia arrived to upstage her in a brazen, bedazzled dress covered in real gems. Around her shoulders was a mink stole to ward off the evening chill. The retail empress and fashion mogul click-clacked her way into the estate like she owned the place in a pair of pumps that were worth more than Relena’s entire ensemble. 

It was just as well. It was kind of nice having the attention directed elsewhere for a change and Dorothy thrived on it in ways Relena never did. It gave her a chance for a breather, to mingle with her actual friends who were also in attendance. 

She swiped a few flutes of champagne and approached the huddled and gossiping group of women that she’d known since she was fifteen, handing a glass to Une and another to Sally. Une took her drink with an appreciative nod while Sally nudged her chin towards the twinkling socialite who’d already made herself at home on the lap of a top ESUN official. “What did she do? Scour Sanq’s diamond mines to make that dress?”

Relena caught the murderous glare of the man’s glowering wife who was standing nearby and hoped to God there wouldn’t be a scene. She sipped her champagne and shrugged. “You know how she is. It _is_ a beautiful dress.”

“It’s also blinding,” Hilde quipped. “It’s a good thing the sun already went down. That thing sparkles so much, it can probably be seen from space.”

Relena tipped her glass at the blue-haired girl and winked. “You look lovely tonight, too, you know. It’s not very often that we get to see you all gussied up.”

Hilde gestured down at her blue dress and flushed with modesty. It was darker than Relena’s, more navy than royal blue, and obviously not a top-tier designer. “This old thing? I admit it’s no Versace, but I guess it’s not bad.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sally chided. “You really do look beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“Howard made it, believe it or not.”

A bubble of laughter escaped before Relena could stop it. “Howard? The Sweepers guy? Really?”

“Yeah. He’s actually really good. He makes his own shirts, too. That’s what he does when he’s stressed. He sews. Duo takes to his punching bag when he’s out of sorts. Howard takes to his sewing machine,” Hilde informed them, dipping her lime wedge into her club soda.

“Well, he’s certainly got good taste,” Une mused. She caught Sally’s sideways glance and threw her hands up in a defensive gesture. “What? It’s true. At the very least, you can’t say he’s unoriginal.”

Sally shook her head with a grin. “Unoriginal he is not. And with a dress like that, I’d say he has very good taste.”

“I’ll tell him you said that. He likes getting compliments. To be fair though, this was from a pattern I’d found and asked him to make. I think if I just gave him free reign, I’d be wearing a dress covered in palm trees and flamingos instead of this,” Hilde said with a laugh and then turned to Relena, poking her gently in the arm. “So, where’s your fiance?”

“Oh, he’s around here somewhere. I had to give him the “don’t be rude” lecture. Last I saw him, he was still upstairs sulking.”

“That boy is not a people person,” Sally agreed. 

“No. He’s getting better, but it’s taken some work to get him to a place where he’s finally stopped scaring people with his death glare.” She swirled her champagne around in her glass and laughed. “The second time we met, he told me he was going to kill me.”

“How romantic,” Hilde droned with a roll of her eyes.

“God, he was so brainwashed,” Sally said. “Poor kid.”

“That’s also why he was so damned good at what he did,” Une reminded her.

“Yeah, but Duo was never like that,” Hilde said. “I don’t think any of them were as brainwashed as Heero was.”

“Definitely not,” Relena agreed. “They all had their primary objective and indoctrination was a part of that, but it wasn’t everything they were. The only one that comes close is Trowa. But from what I’ve seen, he acclimated into this post war world much quicker and easier than Heero has.”

“I think his sister and Quatre had a lot to do with that,” Une said.

“Indeed. They’ve basically been with him the entire time. Quatre is so good for him.”

“You’re good for Heero, too. You two just haven’t had enough time,” Sally assured her. “It’s only been six months.”

“What are you hens clucking about and why wasn’t I invited?” They turned at the familiar drawl and spotted Dorothy a few feet away, posing like a mid-twentieth century pinup. “Seriously,” she continued, stepping closer. “What’s with the funeral faces and why is there a distressing lack of the swarthy opposite sex?”

Hilde rolled her eyes, less than pleased with Dorothy’s interruption. There was no love lost between the two of them. Relena didn’t blame Hilde’s resentment what with the perpetual classist jokes at her expense. “Probably because they were too busy shrouding you like flies on a dog turd.”

Unshakable as ever, Dorothy flipped her hair over her shoulder and rested an expensively manicured hand on her hip. “Honestly, Schbeiker. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” She ignored Hilde’s bristled reaction and gave her a thorough once over. “Nice dress. I didn’t realize you were inviting commoners and charity cases to this occasion, Miss Relena. Dare I say you’ve been lowering the bar with each passing year.”

“You _bitch_ ,” Hilde spat and was thankfully pulled away by Sally before the situation could escalate. 

Dorothy narrowed her eyes at the ranting woman and waved her fingers like a Hollywood starlet on the red carpet. “So nice talking to you,” she sing-songed, then dropped her voice just low enough for Relena to hear. “Trailer trash.”

Relena swatted her hand down and leaned forward with a hiss. “Stop it,” she warned. “I didn’t invite you here to instigate fights.”

“No, you invited me because I’m a generous donor of your soon-to-be-husband’s project.” Her blue eyes twinkled above the rim of her champagne glass. “In our world, Miss Relena, money talks. You know that as well as I do.”

Relena clenched her jaw in irritation. “That does not mean you can come into my house and mistreat my guests, _Ms_ Catalonia.”

“How formal,” Dorothy drawled, lazily blinking eyes that were lined with tiny gems. “Speaking of which, where is Master Yuy and the other four social rejects you’re so fond of?”

Relena opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but was stopped when a loud whoop echoed off the walls, effectively silencing the white noise of murmured conversations among the guests. A moment later, she watched in horror as Duo Maxwell streaked right down the center of the ballroom, naked as a jaybird but for his cherished baseball cap and what looked like a kazoo sticking out of his mouth. 

If her jaw hadn’t already been on the floor, it certainly was when Chang Wufei came barreling through in Duo’s wake, waving his katana in the air and shouting Chinese obscenities. His pristine, traditional formal wear was stained in hot pink and covered with sequins. 

Not a minute later, Sally, Hilde, and the remaining three Gundam pilots tore through the room, shouting after the two men. As they disappeared into the courtyard, Quatre skidded to a stop and glanced around, suddenly aware of the spectacle that had just occurred as well as their riveted audience. 

He reached back and scratched the back of his head, his charming public persona instantly appearing with the toothy, dimpled grin that never failed to get him his way. “Sorry, folks,” he chirped. “This is simply a rehearsal for the action-packed evening our lovely hostess has prepared for us.” He met Relena’s shocked gaze and gave her a saucy wink that somehow communicated so much more.

It was a wink that said, _I hope you have a good imagination, Miss Relena because I don’t know how else we’re going to salvage this._

She glared murderously at the blond man, sending her own silent message.

_You can start with disposing of Maxwell and Chang and you’d better do a good job of hiding the bodies, or else I’m blaming you._

He nodded in acknowledgement and turned his thousand watt smile on the rest of the guests. “Right. As you were,” he announced with a flick of his hand and then he was off, disappearing into the courtyard with the others.

Dorothy watched all of this with silent amusement and then turned back to Relena who immediately put a hand up and barked, “Not a word, Dorothy.” She grabbed the silver tray of a passing maître d’ and chugged down an entire flute of champagne, tossing the glass over her shoulder where it shattered on the marble floor before she reached for a second.

“And you thought I was exaggerating when I said you were lowering the bar.”

Dorothy’s smug voice reached her ringing ears, but her only objective now was to get so sloshed, she wouldn’t remember anything come morning. She ignored the woman in favor of swiping a fourth flute of champagne from her confiscated tray and knocked back half of it in one gulp. 

She made a face at the rest and dropped the tray onto the floor with a resounding _clang._  "Someone get me a scotch and soda, for Christ’s sake.”


End file.
